


apollo, byname phoebus

by puthein



Category: Archie Comics, Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: First Time, Internalised Homophobia, Introspection, M/M, jughead is gay so keep on scrolling if you're not here for that, sloppy makeouts inside archie's truck because somebody had to do it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 18:45:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10702902
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/puthein/pseuds/puthein
Summary: Jughead kisses Archie for the first time in the old truck, leant over the handbrake, with the orange glow of the streetlamp bouncing off them both. Thinking just for one, fragile, moment, that he’ll never be able to write anything encapsulating this feeling.=Or, Jughead finds absolution, and, somewhere along the way, some semblance of peace.





	apollo, byname phoebus

**Author's Note:**

> i'm trying out a new kind of prose-y style because, well, it's jughead.
> 
> this is very definitely riverdale's jughead, but less of an asshole. or maybe just a different kind of asshole. anyway, i stole a bunch of other stuff from the archie comics, like kevin and jughead being great pals. set in some weird timeline where grundy is not real and jughead apparently lives within walking distance of archie's house. i'm supposed to be writing a thesis and i don't have the energy to write within canon. leave me alone.

Jughead kisses Archie for the first time in the old truck, leant over the handbrake, with the orange glow of the streetlamp bouncing off them both. Thinking just for one, fragile, moment, that he’ll never be able to write anything encapsulating this feeling.

=

It’s 7PM, dark out, and Archie reaches over the booth to clasp Jughead’s hand in one of his. Jughead’s first instinct is to snatch it back, nearly upending his milkshake in the process.

“What,” he hisses, “Are you _doing_?”

“What?” Archie says, still with his hand resting on the tabletop, “We used to do it all the time.” There’s a laugh curled away in the slant of Archie’s smile. There always is.

“Yeah, Archie, when we were _kids_ ,” he says, feeling defensive and caught out, like Archie somehow _knows_. It makes him feel dirty, and ashamed, and voyeuristic. Like he can’t control himself, can’t be friends with anyone without looking at them the wrong way. He turns back to his laptop, hoping the searing blue light will dim the warmth that Archie gives off, even when he’s just sitting there, iridescent red under the neon lights.

Jughead feels more like a kid than ever.

“Do you,” Archie murmurs, “Do you wish we were? Still, I mean.” Jughead chances a look over his laptop. He hates it sometimes, how easy it is for him to read Archie, unable to stop even when he wants to. He wanted to not know for a long time. Since the summer. He can’t forget it.

It’s all there, laid out before him in the set of Archie’s shoulders, his eyes downcast, pulling his lip into his mouth and worrying it.

“Yeah,” Jughead says, feeling similarly small, “Me too.”

“I really missed you,” Archie says, “I swear.”

Jughead sees him, the way his eyebrows pull together, distorting the scar he got falling out of the treehouse, remembers how he had cried, how he, himself, had screamed for help, thinking Archie must have been dying with all that blood leaking out of him. How they had clung together, aged 6 and three-quarters, both crying.

“Me too,” he says, and puts his hand back on the table.

“I missed you too,” Jughead says, and lets Archie curl their fingers together, like an apology physically coalescing between them. They don’t need to say anything else.

=

“Hey,” Archie had said, “Are we gonna be alright?”

And Jughead had said, “Yeah,” and managed to look Archie in the eyes for a full millisecond before it became too much. His face felt hot and tight and like he didn’t know what he was doing with it, except grinning from ear-to-ear. Staring at the wet concrete of Archie’s driveway didn’t do anything to change that.

“You sure?” Archie said, posed like some proto-typical manifestation of the American boy in the driver’s seat. One hand gripping the steering wheel, and the other slung round the back of Jughead’s headrest.

And Jughead had said, “Yeah,” with Archie there and gold and red and giving off so much heat. Looking at him like he was all that mattered. Like Archie’s beat up, creaky truck was a bubble in space-time, from which no hidden emotion could escape.

And Archie had said, “You sure? Really sure? Because I know what I said to you, and I know it was hurtful, and thoughtless, and I was really dumb-“

“Archie,” Jughead interrupts, “You’re _not_ dumb.” But it doesn’t come out the way it was supposed to. He whispers it, too soft in such an enclosed space, and it makes his scalp prickle.

Archie’s still looking at him, but he’s not smiling anymore, and there’s something there that makes Jughead aware that his mouth is partway open. He turns away. And then turns back. All the hair is standing up on his arms, scalp and legs, like he’s part of an electrical circuit.

“You’re not dumb,” he says again. “Archie, you’re…” and thumps his palms down on his thighs, frustrated. He can’t vocalise what he wants to say. Like the presence of Archie’s hand, inches away from the back of his head through the armrest is enough to make his brain turn off. “You’re…”

“Jughead,” Archie whispers, so, so, softly, and Jughead leans in and kisses him.

It’s too fast, and too light – barely a brush of their mouths, but he doesn’t care at all. He’s done it. Jughead Jones kissed Archie Andrews in the front seat of his truck, visible to anyone who could be looking, and it counts. It counts as a kiss, this time, unlike when they were eight in his treehouse and Jughead suggested they try it to see what the fuss was about.

“Oh,” Archie breathes.

“Yeah,” Jughead says, looking down at this lap, “ _Oh_.” He tries for a smile but it doesn’t feel right on his face (probably because he just _kissed Archie Andrews_ ). Well, it’s out there now. All of his feelings spread out between them, worse even than if Archie had just opened his diary and started reading. Jughead has no idea what to say. _I’m sorry? I shouldn’t have done that? I didn’t mean it?_

“You kissed me,” Archie says. “Jughead-”

“Well done,” Jughead blurts, feeling his signature scowl come on, sitting hunched over, picking at his fingers, “I kissed you.”

“I’m sorry,” Archie says, and he pulls his arm away from Jughead. The palpable rejection is nearly too much for him. He wants to get out, pull his beanie down all the way over his ears, and try to forget about Riverdale, Archie Andrews, and the gentle, reflexive press of his mouth.

Instead, he says, “It’s okay. I can walk home from here. Thanks for the ride.” Grabs his backpack, with all his unfinished homework crammed in it, and pops the side-door open. “See you at school tomorrow.”

Archie reaches past him and closes the door.

“No Jug, I didn’t mean – not like _that_ ,” he says. “Why’d you kiss me?” Jughead freezes.

“I don’t know, Andrews, why do you kiss people?” It’s less vitriolic than he would like, less than he meant it, but Archie’s always made him better. Made him tell the truth.

He feels more than hears Archie sigh. They’re practically sharing the same seat. Archie’s hand is still on the door. He can see them both reflected the fingerprint stained glass. “Don’t be like that,” Archie says. He’s smiling.

“Maybe sardonic humour is just my way of relating to the world,” Jughead murmurs, watching Archie’s reflection slide his hand off the steering wheel, this twist of his mouth, the way his eyebrows are all the way up. His breathing goes shaky before Archie even touches him – a flat palm on the centre of his back, over his spine. They lock eyes in the glass, both glowing amber by the streetlight. Archie drags his hand up, and up, until it’s on the back of his neck, holding him still, settled. Like a dog. Jughead has to close his eyes and exhale in a shuddering rush.

“Maybe,” Archie agrees, voice thick. “Let me kiss you back.” Jughead’s hands are shaking. Archie’s gaze is unwavering in the glass. His hand is so solid.

“Jug,” he says, “let me kiss you.”

“Yeah,” Jughead says, and turns just enough to catch his mouth.

It’s a bad angle. Archie’s front is mostly pressed against his back, and Archie’s pulling at his neck to try and correct it and all that does is make Jughead moan into him. They still hold it for longer than is comfortable.

When they pull apart Archie is beaming at him. “What?” Jughead says, feeling bright pink and happy and like he’s smiling way too big for this small place. He must look so stupid. The thought doesn’t even phase him.

“Just you,” Archie says, playing with the loose bits of hair that have escaped from Jughead’s beanie. “Just you.”

Jughead wants to kiss him again, so he does.

Their mouths slide together, soft and plush. Jughead inhales sharply through his nose, pushing at Archie, making it deeper, clutching, aware that he’s clutching, and not caring at all. It’s so, so good. His body seems to know what to do even if he doesn’t; tilting his head into it, imitating the push and pull of Archie’s mouth against his.

“Jesus, Jug, we could have been doing this _ages_ ago,” Archie says.

“Shut up, oh my _god_ , shut up,” Jughead says, pulling Archie in by his stupid, slippery letterman jacket, kissing him again and again. Letting Archie push him up against the door, feeling his heat, the hot weight of his body crushing him to the glass.

It’s making him hot all over, scalp prickling with it, and he whines when Archie catches his lower lip between his teeth and pulls.

“Archie,” he’s panting between kisses, “Archie.” He gets kissed especially hard for that, head thunking back, and then Archie’s hands are there, cradling his jaw, sliding around to the back of his head.

“Archie,” he says again, right as Archie comes in again and turns the series of fast, brutal presses into one slow kiss, sealing their mouths together.

Jughead sighs through his nose, slinging one arm round Archie’s broad shoulders, and letting the other hand wander up into Archie’s hair. It’s soft and silky at the back and behind his ears, and when Jughead curls his fingers there Archie hums – fingers tightening momentarily on his jaw and neck.

He wants more. He wants Archie’s hand to slide down, cup his throat, make him move the way Archie wants him to. The thought makes him push forward and open his mouth, making the kiss hotter and impossibly wetter. They both moan.

Archie tips his head, and then his tongue is sliding over Jughead’s lower lip. It makes him shiver and open his mouth, but all Archie does is repeat that slow pass, again and again, until Jughead’s whole body feels tight. He’s panting, opening his legs and mouth further, running his hands over Archie’s shoulders and chest.

“God,” Archie moans, “God, Jughead, you feel so fucking good.”

“Kiss me,” he says, chasing Archie’s mouth, talking while grazing their mouths together, and it would make him sick if he saw anyone else doing this, but it’s Archie and it’s always been Archie and him, together against the world. “Kiss me.”

Archie presses guitar-calloused thumbs at the hinges of Jughead’s jaw, forcing him to open his mouth, and then Archie licks into him.

It’s a constant tickling pressure, forcing his tongue down, filling his mouth over and over again. Jughead find himself squeezing his eyes closed; opening himself up as much as possible to let Archie in. _Kiss me_ , he thinks, feels the relief and elation when Archie tucks himself in closer, big hands spanning his jaw, curling in down to his neck.

 _Kiss me_ , he thinks, and lets Archie draw his tongue into his mouth. The wet heat of it is absurd. He tries his best to emulate what Archie did to him – long slow licks that drag at the roof of his mouth. It makes Archie moan and haul him closer, one hand clamped over Jughead’s hip, and the other gripping his nape.

“Oh,” Jughead says, dumbly, and then Archie sucks on his tongue. It’s a hot, prickling sensation that makes his body seize, bent in towards Archie. Fingers tangling and catching in his hair, the familiar ache between his legs. His hips punch up into Archie’s grip.

Archie laughs at him. It’s completely outwith his control, but that doesn’t stop all the remaining blood in his body flow straight into his face. “Um,” he gets out, feeling all over the place and too big for this car, especially with Archie’s hands pulling at his seams.

“My dad’s not home,” Archie whispers into his mouth. “Wanna come up?”

Jughead gapes at him. It’s not that he doesn’t want to ( _God_ , he wants to) but the cognitive dissonance is so intense that for a moment it feels like he’s been knocked two metres out of his own body – still inhabiting it, but from a distance. His hands hooked around Archie’s neck, still clinging on, and his leg kicked out over Archie’s lap. Both of them twisted together in the front seat. An affront to the American ideal – the reason why people made jokes about the boys’ locker room, the showers, boys wearing pink. Jughead is Plato, and Archie is Jim, and it feels like some violation of the bounds of friendship and a sharp-edged metaphor all at once.

“Yeah,” Jughead says, looking at Archie and hoping that conveys everything he’s thinking. Archie couldn’t sit through _Rebel Without a Cause_ the first time, or the second, or the third, until Jughead looped their ankles together in the bed of the truck. Archie had promptly fallen asleep with his face pressed into Jughead’s neck – hot breath burning there. Jughead hadn’t understood the potentiation he’d felt, looking at James Dean and feeling Archie curled into him all at once. He understands now.

James Dean doesn’t compare.

=

The windows are fogged up. He doesn’t know why he notices that, when he should undoubtedly be focused on the space widening between him and Archie as they stand separated by the car. Archie’s smiling at him, so widely and with such genuine joy that it makes Jughead want to yell, run, do cartwheels down the street to unleash the feeling sitting in his chest. Instead, he grabs his backpack out of the footwell and closes the door. When he comes back up, Archie is still looking at him over the roof of the car, one hand propping the door open.

“Well,” Jughead teases, “Are you waiting for someone else?” He quirks an eyebrow, sways in place, and swings the bag strap of his shoulder, delighting in the way it makes Archie’s smile change to the same intense one he’d had in the car.

It makes Jughead feel…something undefinable. Like his lungs are being displaced by something else liquid and gold filtering between his ribs. It makes his face hot, his palms itchy, and his shoulders curl in and up.

The solid _thuk_ of Archie’s door closing makes him jump, and something else entirely makes him turn and take the steps of the porch two at a time, hearing Archie’s ‘Hey!’ and thriving with how much at home he feels.

He tags the door, and has enough time to start to turn round, wide-eyed and ready to crow, before Archie is on him. One arm slung around his waist, and the other gripping his chin, forcing him to stay still while Archie presses a kiss to his cheek and rocks them together.

“You’re gross, Andrews,” he says, but he’s laughing through it. So is Archie, pressed up all along his back and giggling into his ear. It’s startling how easy it is. Some part of him really wants the neighbours to hear, pull back their lace curtains, and see the Jones and Andrews boys intertwined on the front porch. There’s no way to pass off this pose as anything platonic – not the way Archie’s palms are pressed flat and confident to his body, or the way Jughead has one hand cupping Archie’s neck, encouraging him.

He wants them to see. He wants them to _know_. He wants everyone to look at them and know that it’s him Archie wants.

He feels giddy.

“Open the door,” Jughead says, bringing their faces inches apart. Archie takes a little longer than usual to comply, eyes stuck on Jughead – flittering over his face, as though trying to memorise him. Jughead watches him dig the keys out of his back pocket, slot them into the door, and turn.

The door swings open without needing to turn the handle, like it always has. Jughead runs his hand down the wall – blind in the dark, and finds the light switch. It feels like it should’ve been in a different place. Nothing’s changed.

He follows Archie up the stairs, sickly fascinated by the cinematic parallels between this, now, and the previous life that existed before the summer. How many times had he and Archie scrambled up here as kids, laughing and falling over each other in a pointless race. He can’t stop smiling. He hasn’t been able to stop smiling since he and Archie walked out of Pop’s, feeling lighter and absolved of both their sins.

Archie stops on the landing and spins around, and Jughead – distracted – stumbles and walks into his chest. A lot changes in two months, he thinks, with Archie’s big hands spanning his forearms. He’s had to look down to meet Archie’s eyes since last year, but that doesn’t make it any less bizarre.

“Still good?” Archie asks. His grip slackens a little on Jughead’s arms. He’s giving him an out.

Jughead doesn’t want an out. He steps in, closer, until their noses are brushing.

“Still good,” he whispers. Archie’s staring at his mouth. Jughead smirks, deliberately slowly, leans in, and then steps past Archie to open the door to his room. “You coming?” he says.

Archie’s bedroom is the same as it ever was. Dark, messy, and unbelievably Archie. From the posters tacked on top of each other, to the permanent marker scrawled over the bedposts. Jughead was here, occupying space. It might be the only place – besides the drive-in – that he’s imparted pieces of himself on. He puts his bag down behind the door, the same way he always used to, and goes to sit on the bed. They’re still the same dark blue flannel sheets.

He can feel Archie – big but not imposing – hovering in the doorway. Anyone else with the light behind them like that would be intimidating, but it’s _Archie_. The letterman jacket makes him look larger than he is. Douchier, too.

“That jacket makes you look like a douche,” Jughead says, partly from nerves, and partly because he’s an asshole. Archie snorts.

“ _All_ of your jackets make you look like a douche, dude,” he says. “You look like the guy from _The Breakfast Club_.”

“John Bender,” Jughead says, beleaguered, “John Bender, Archie. Jesus. And no, I don’t. I’m cultivating my own style.”

“You look like John Bender. All you need is some fingerless gloves.”

Jughead huffs, mock angry. “You didn’t even know who John Bender _was_ until ten seconds ago.”

“Yeah,” Archie grins. He comes to sit on the other end of the bed. “He’s the guy from _The Breakfast Club_.”

“You’re impossible, Arch.” He shakes his head. “Completely impossible,” he says, but he’s smiling like an idiot. So is Archie.

He wants desperately to be kissed again – to kiss Archie again. He’s clutching at the edge of the mattress and curling in on himself. The same potentiation he’d felt in the car earlier, when he and Archie’s eyes met in the mirrored glass, is coiling between them.

“Hey,” Archie says, still smiling, but softer now.

“Hey,” Jughead whispers. The space between them on the bed – Jughead at the pillows and Archie at the foot – is miles apart.

Archie seems to think the same thing, because he comes and crawls up the bed. He flops down with his head on the pillow, right next to where Jughead’s sitting. Jughead has the sudden, wild, thought that Archie is caged between him and the wall. That Archie is letting himself be caged.

“Jughead,” Archie says, “Come lay down with me.”

He fakes a swoon. “Archie, that’s _so_ romantic. You know, I really think you were born to be a poet.”

“Shut up,” Archie laughs, “Come lay down.” He hooks one hand in the crook of Jughead’s elbow, and even through a denim jacket, a flannel, and a shirt, he can feel the phantom heat it gives off. The weight is barely noticable, and yet it feels like a gravitational pull. He’s circling Archie, getting pulled closer and closer in on each rotation.

He doesn’t know how that feels more intimate than whatever they were doing in the car earlier. But it does. He hesitates – tugging at the hem of his beanie where it’s pulled over his ears. He wants to take it off. He also doesn’t want Archie to see the hearing aid. It shouldn’t matter. He’s sure it doesn’t matter to _Archie_. But it does – it matters to Jughead.

He whips it off and hangs it on the bedpost before he can overthink – well, over-overthink. Archie knows it’s there. Archie doesn’t care. He _knows_ Archie doesn’t care, laying there with his big, easy smile.

Jughead lies down. Archie’s bed isn’t really big enough for both of them anymore, so he ends up soaking up the entirely of Archie’s body heat, basking in it.

“I should take my boots off,” he blurts, immediately feeling like an idiot.

“Oh yeah,” Archie says, and then they both lean down together to take their shoes off. Jughead can’t help it. He huffs out a laugh, watching he and Archie’s fingers both scrabbling at their laces. “What?” Archie says, breaking out the big puppy-dog eyes.

“This is just like us,” Jughead snickers, “Remember when we were kids and we both tracked mud all through your house, and then your dad came in and told us to take our shoes off before he took us outside and hosed us down?”

“Yeah,” Archie says, “I really thought he might do it, too.”

“I just-,” Jughead starts. His voice falters. He can feel Archie looking at him. His hands pause on his laces, fingers slipping on the strings. “I think – I think we were in the exact same position.”

“I think you’re right,” Archie says. Their shoulders are pressed together. Jughead looks at him, and for a moment, sees himself reflected in Archie’s eyes. He looks…pulled together, like a battered ragdoll.

“Archie,” Jughead says, “Are we making a mistake?”

Archie opens his mouth, like he wants to say something and cannot find it. He looks plaintive, searching. He looks like Jughead is gonna fuck this up – ruin it, destroy their friendship, all for his unnecessary wants and desires.

He hangs his head.

“I think we’ve already made too many mistakes,” Archie says, “So what’s one more?” That, unsurprisingly, does not exactly make Jughead feel any better. In fact, it terrifies him. Archie has never purposefully used anyone, but what if he wakes up tomorrow and realises that he’s in love with Veronica, or Betty, or Valerie. Or, at the very least, more in love with them than he is with Jughead. And that would be it. Over. Archie would feel so bad, but it wouldn’t change a thing.

And then he says, “This doesn’t feel like a mistake. It feels…like it was always going to happen.”

“Inevitability,” Jughead breathes.

“Jughead,” Archie says. He reaches between them and curls his fingers around Jughead’s thinner, ink-stained ones. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.” Jughead looks at them, hopelessly intertwined, and then at Archie. There’s a horrible weight in his chest. He has to get it out.

“Archie,” he says, “I’m in love with you.”

Archie grins. “You dumbass,” he says, “I’ve been in love with you since I was twelve.”

“Oh,” Jughead says, and hopes that conveys everything choking the air between them. It’s not everything he wants (he wants too much), but it’s enough to make the ball of anxiety in his stomach slacken and dissipate. Archie leans in and kisses his cheek again, like he did outside an eternity ago. It still makes Jughead squirm. He squeezes Archie’s hand in poorly repressed desperation before turning back, away from Archie, to his shoes.

Jughead finishes unlacing first, mostly because they were never properly tied in the first place. He scoots up the bed, dropping down and bouncing a little once his head hits the pillow. It’s still bizarre to him, and a little overwhelming – the visions of his carbon-copy doing the same thing. Flopping back on Archie’s bed is something he’s done an unquantifiable amount of times.

He puts his hands behind his head and debates removing his shirt, looking at the broadness of Archie’s shoulder’s – his tapered waist, his undeniable masculinity.

Archie keeps glancing back at him over his shoulder – he’s tied his laces too tight and can’t unpick them, like always. Jughead loves him. He thinks of Kevin, who had once punched a boy that hounded Jughead, mashing him up against the lockers with fists until he’d felt like tenderised meat but with more blood congealing, dripping, wetting the collar of his shirt. ‘ _Queer_ ’, the boy had said, and Kevin had appeared and pulled him off in a manifestation of silent fury – mouth a thin line and eyes barely concealing his own agony. They’d had each other then, an unspoken bond present in the locker room before gym class, where they were both avoided, not looked at, not spoken to, until the next boy wanted to carve their aggression onto a person. _They’re jealous_ , Kevin had once spat with Jughead’s shirt stemming the flow of blood from his nose. _Of what?_ Jughead had laughed, because who would be jealous of a nobody? Kevin had smiled – teeth dyed red, and tipped them together, his head on Jughead’s bare shoulder and Jughead’s cheek in Kevin’s hair, and they had just sat against the lockers, feeling empty and unqualified to deal with school eternal.

Kevin had known what was there all along.

Jughead Jones likes boys. Specifically, he likes Archie, and he’s shocked by how much he wants to touch him. He’s been holding back without realising he’s been holding back, not wanting to be touched, rarely touching. He doesn’t have to do that anymore.

Archie looks over at him again, a smile dancing at the corners of his mouth. “What are you looking at?” he smirks – typically sardonic.

“You,” Archie says. Jughead shivers.

“But,” Archie continues, turning back to shake his shoe off, “I meant it. We don’t have to do anything, Jug.”

“You done it with a boy before?” Jughead asks, diverting. He props himself up on his elbows. Archie’s gaze skitters from his face down to his groin and then back up. The tension between them is palpable, and Jughead feels naked. He wants to spread his legs, to give Archie a better look.

“No,” Archie murmurs, “It’s my first time.” That’s hot. Jughead doesn’t really get it, but that – the way Archie looks at him – makes his palms itch and his dick swell in his jeans. This time he really does tip his legs open.

Archie’s other shoe clatters to the floor.

“But you’ve done it with a girl before, right?” He scoots across the bed a little, just enough to allow Archie to lie down beside him. Archie takes his hand again – stroking his thumb over his knuckles in a slow, repetitive pass. He looks so earnest, and pure, and Jughead still feels the hovering shadow of his own corrupting influence. It’s dimmer now. How could it not be, so close to Archie, who burns so bright?

“Yeah,” Archie says softly, “Not all the way though, just stuff.”

“Okay,” Jughead says, and then, “Hey, like – I’m not, y’know-“

“Jughead, what?” Archie says, rolling up onto his side to hover over him. Jughead huffs and looks away, staring up at the band posters pasted onto the ceiling.

“You’re good with this, right? I mean, you keep asking me, and I-” He trails off, shrugging awkwardly.

Archie laughs, not cruelly, just incredulously. “Jughead, _yes_. Of course I am.” He puts his other hand in Jughead’s hair, tousling. “Are you feeling okay?”

“Just peachy,” he says, saccharine. Archie’s hand slides around the back of his head, still petting and making him want to purr.

“You don’t even like peaches,” Archie smiles, right as Jughead squawks, and then he kisses him.

It’s slower than their other frantic kisses in the car. Archie leans in over Jughead and presses their clasped hands to Jughead’s chest. _Over his heart_ , he thinks, and smiles into it.

Archie pulls back, just enough to look in his eyes. Jughead scoffs. “You’re a sap, Arch,” he says, even as Archie pushes his hair out of his eyes. Both hands cupping his face, thumbs sweeping under his sleep-bruised eyes.

“Yeah,” Archie hums, “But I think you’re a sap too.”

“This is cruel and unusual punishment. They probably let you talk to prisoners of war until they agree to join the Viet Cong,” Jughead says, forcing it up and out, babbling, trying to cover himself up. He pulls Archie in again.

“Mm,” Archie protests, but he evidently doesn’t mind too much, because he grabs the back of Jughead’s neck and his waist – _big, big hands_ , Jughead thinks – feeling the heat of Archie’s palm on his side, nearly reaching the centre of his back.

He’s solid. He’s so solid over Jughead – all shoulders and muscle. He can’t stop clutching. Both arms wrapped tight around Archie’s back and forcing them together, grip stretching out his shirt.

Archie sucks on his tongue in these hot little pulses that Jughead _really_ likes. He likes it so much that he drives his groin into Archie’s thigh, and the sweet pressure of it makes him whine.

“Jughead,” Archie moans, sounding utterly shocked, and then he rolls on top, covering Jughead with his body.

“Oh,” he says, wondering wildly at the fit of Archie’s thigh – pressing to his groin and forcing his legs wide open. And then they’re rocking together, Archie’s mouth hot and pressed to his cheek, his jaw, his neck. Sliding lower. Licking at his throat, tipping him back, back, back, and prying his body open at the seams.

“I wanna touch you,” Archie gasps.

“Archie,” he breathes, eyes rolling back, barely pinned together, “What do you think you’re doing right now?”

Archie just moans again. His hot breath fans out over the cooling spit on Jughead’s neck, making it feel more – present. The reality of what they’re doing drying over his throat.

Then, Archie rolls him onto his side.

“What, Arch-“ he starts. He’s shocked at how gravelly his own voice is.

“I wanna touch you,” Archie says again, as though that explains why his hands have left Jughead’s hips. He can feel his own body like he never has before in the gaps between Archie touching it and the potentiality for Archie to start touching it again. Shaking, flushed and shuddering, hair stuck to his mouth. He feels…incandescent. Destructed.

“Then touch me,” he says. “It’s not that hard.” And it’s not. The floodgates have been opened. He's renewed. He feels Archie press along his back, bite into the back of his neck, nuzzle into his hair. Archie’s big, broad hands come up under his armpits to splay out over his chest, pinky-fingers resting just below his nipples. He doesn’t think he’s ever been more aware of them in his life. He wants Archie to drag those fingers that infinitesimal amount upwards and push on them.

Instead, Archie pushes him away and strips his shirt off. Near frantically, Jughead sits up and does the same. Jacket and plaid shirt off as one piece, leaves the white tank on because Archie looks too fucking good, and Jughead isn’t insecure exactly, but still. Archie puts one hand on his shoulder and pushes him down into the same position, crowding behind him. One hand comes up under his armpit again to cradle his jaw – so, so delicately. He can’t take it anymore.

He takes Archie’s hand and drags it down, away from his face, over his neck, down to his collarbone before Archie groans, “ _Oh_ , Jughead,” into his ear and gets the picture. There’s nothing he can do except push his head down into the pillow and grip at Archie’s forearm. He’s lying still, side on, exposing himself for Archie to play with, and it’s getting him so hot he can barely breathe.

Archie bites his ear and starts hiking his shirt up – sliding his palm flat against Jughead’s abdomen, so fucking slowly. It looks obscene. It bunches up under his arms, leaving him feeling more exposed than if he’d taken it off completely. “Archie,” he breathes, relishing the weight of Archie’s roughened hand on his sternum, fingers following the curve of his collarbone.

“Mmm?” Archie hums. Jughead can only tip his head back further, accentuating the curve of his body – neck towards Archie’s mouth and chest pressing into his hands. He feels like a doll made specifically for Archie. Made for this purpose.

“You’ve made me so hard,” he says, truthfully, voice breaking on a moan when Archie licks him from clavicle to jaw in one, long, slow drag.

Archie gasps – undulates along his back, and for one moment he can feel the hot, thick line of Archie’s dick pressed into the back of his thigh. “Oh _God_ , Jughead,” he rumbles, and then his hand is sliding down to cup him through the denim. Jughead sucks in a sharp breath, already panting, and his hips go back and his knees come up, like he’s trying to trap Archie’s hand there. Archie’s just feeling him – tracing the shape and squeezing lightly and it’s the best thing he’s ever felt. Both of them are looking down, watching Archie’s palm spread out over Jughead’s crotch and the way Jughead is still gripping his forearm, grip gone white-knuckled.

“Don’t stop,” he rasps out, “Archie, don’t you dare fucking stop touching me.” And Archie bites him and squeezes and grinds his palm down, varying the intensity until Jughead feels like his whole perception is narrowing down to that point between his legs.

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” Archie pants, squeezing him particularly viciously and forcing a high, reedy moan out of him, “Jughead, you’re so fucking hot.”

“Liar,” Jughead breathes, knowing his face has gone all pinched and crinkled, “We both know you’re the hot one.”

“No, you are,” Archie insists. His hand moves off Jughead’s dick. Even the loss makes him squirm – like he’s just realised how tight his jeans are without the concurrent pressure of Archie’s hand. “I love how small you are.”

“You really know what to say to a guy,” Jughead laughs, somewhat at odds to the thrum coursing through his whole body. “We’re the same height, Archie,” he says, “Or thereabouts, anyway.”

“Mm,” Archie says, “Maybe if you wore heels.” And Jughead laughs, rolls into him, and kisses his grinning mouth.

“Are you into that?” he snipes, unable to stop himself even like this. “Boys in heels, Archie. You like that?” There’s a familiar hot tight pressure low in his stomach, and he realises with a jolt how close he’s gotten. Archie nearly made him come. He shudders.

“God, Jughead, shut up,” Archie groans. He puts both hands in Jughead’s hair and hauls him in, mouth already open. It’s wet and messy, and everything he never dared to dream of. Resultantly, Jughead doesn’t exactly think he can be blamed for losing his fucking mind and saying, “I want you to keep me here for hours,” while Archie’s sucking on his jaw, rapidly followed by, “Do whatever you want to me,” which sounds a little needy but makes Archie go nuts.

Archie puts a hand between his legs again, but this time he just rubs his palm back and forth, back and forth. Jughead’s thighs snap closed on that pressure, arching to increase it. Bizarrely, he realises this is what Archie would do to a girl – play with their pussy, get them wet – and his whole body seizes.

He nearly comes. He was so close. But Archie bites him a little too hard – the wrong side of pain – and it’s just enough for him to not quite make it.

“Did you just-“ Archie breathes. He lifts himself up over Jughead to look, stroking the sweaty hair away from his face. All the times Jughead imagined – fleetingly, in rare, allowed moments – he never thought sex would be like this. He’s always visualised a dark room, someone faceless, the degrading act itself, but never the spaces between and afterwards. Instead, he has Archie.

“No,” Jughead says, “Not yet.” He leans into Archie’s hand, looking into his’s brown-gone-black eyes and the want there. He’s bright red, clashing awfully with his ginger hair, and his mouth… _His mouth_ , Jughead thinks, awed.

“I want you to come,” Archie says, and then he dives over Jughead to open the bedside table and grab the lube. As though that isn’t an impossible thing to say to someone while they’re half-naked and turned on. As though that isn’t an impossible thing to say to someone when you’re pressed together, and the long, golden stretch of your torso is right in front of their face.

Jughead skims his hands up Archie’s flanks, before settling them low on his hips. His thumbs rub and dip into the crease just below Archie’s jeans. It makes Archie squirm in his lap and glance back at him, even as his hips are pushing into Jughead’s hands.

He tries not to think about it too hard, and slides one hand to cup the bulge in Archie’s jeans. The effects are electric. Archie’s eyes snap closed and he pushes into Jughead’s palm, and Jughead – to hide his face or reactions or just because he’s overwhelmed – presses his face to Archie’s broad, heaving chest. Which turns into kissing, and then to licking, and biting, until Archie is caught between his hands and mouth, rocking between them.

“Jug,” Archie moans. He slides one hand into Jughead’s sweaty hair, tugging gently even as Jughead laps at his nipple until it peaks. He nips at it experimentally and Archie pulls his hair, tipping his head back. His dick pulses under Jughead’s palm.

 _It’s big_ , Jughead blindly thinks, squeezing tightly. Archie’s hips judder – momentarily pressing back onto Jughead’s dick. He makes a startled, deep noise and thrusts up, nearly overbalancing Archie and dumping him on the floor.

“Whoa, cowboy,” Archie pants, grinning. He’s still going for his boy-next-door routine, even with Jughead’s thumb pushing on the head of his dick and flushed all down to his chest.

“Jake Gyllenhaal or Heath Ledger?” he quips. Archie smacks his shoulder with the bottle of lube and they both laugh – Jughead butting his forehead against Archie’s chest and slinging both arms around his hips.

“Personally,” Archie says, “I don’t know enough about movies to answer that.”

“Ugh,” Jughead groans, “Neanderthal. You’ve been hit on the head too many times in football practice.”

Archie laughs again, bright and with abandon, like it’s taking up the whole room. Jughead looks up at him. Bathed in the warm glow of his battered table lamp, he looks beautiful. He always looks beautiful – under the unflattering white of the class light, out in the sun, under the neon red in Pop’s. He can feel himself beaming, and he keeps beaming when Archie bumps their noses together and tips his head until their mouths meet.

“Okay,” Archie says, climbing off him, “Stand up for a second.”

Jughead absolutely does not want to get up or move away from Archie, but he does. Standing beside the bed while Archie props the pillows up against the headboard feels a little ridiculous with his tank rucked up under his armpits, so he strips it off. When he emerges, Archie is staring at him, eyes raking up and down his chest. He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, so he flings one up behind his head and puts the other on his hip – imitating one of the girls that Archie has tacked up beside his bed. Deliberately posing makes him feel more at home, like he and Archie are just horsing around. If horsing around was synonymous with getting naked and touching each other all over.

Strangely, or maybe not strangely at all, it makes him feel better when Archie laughs at him. “Come here,” he says, shaking his head and giggling, tugging Jughead’s hand away from his hip.

Using his grip on Jughead’s forearm, he guides him down until Jughead is sitting between his thighs, back to Archie’s chest. Archie’s arms circle his torso, superheated on his bare skin. It’s reminiscent of the car, earlier. An eternity ago. “Archie,” he breathes.

“I know,” Archie answers. He flattens a reassuring palm to Jughead’s sternum. It’s grounding, and Jughead lets his head flop back against Archie’s shoulder – seeking the warmth he gives off.

“Dude, you’re like a space heater,” he says, words stuttering when Archie kisses him, very gently, all the while stroking his chest. Up and down, until his hand skims under Jughead’s navel and he shivers. “C’mon, Arch.”

Archie says, “Okay,” a little shakily. His dick is pushed up tight against Jughead’s ass – he can feel it – hot, hard pressure soaking through his jeans. He wants to touch it again. He wants to see it.

He squirms back against Archie, both hands clenching tight on his’s thighs, craning his neck to kiss at his throat. Archie makes a shocky noise and jerks his hips forward. Jughead freezes. And then he does the same move again, but very slowly, in a deliberate grind.

Archie’s hands grip his hips and literally pin him in place. “No,” he rasps.

Jughead feels his dick jump in his jeans. “Oh, Archie,” he says, only a little sarcastically, because, wow, hot, “You brute, be gentle wi-“ Archie clamps a hand over his mouth.

“Jug,” Archie says, “Shut up?” Jughead narrows his eyes and licks at Archie’s palm. And promptly gets very distracted when Archie starts undoing his jeans.

He tries to say ‘Archie’, but it comes out as “Mm-mmr?” because Archie’s still got his hand over Jughead’s mouth. He can’t even breathe – he’s having to inhale and exhale through his nose. He can’t fucking _move_ or squirm away, which, absurdly, is making him dizzier.

Archie hand tenses over his face, unintentionally bending his head back against his shoulder, and he simultaneously slips his hand into Jughead’s boxers and squeezes the base of his dick. ‘Oh, _God_ ,’ he moans, which just sounds like obscene noise through Archie’s hand.

“Jesus, Jughead,” Archie gasps, squeezing and pulling and running his thumb in circles around the head of his dick, “You want this so bad, huh? You’re so wet.”

“Oh, God,” Jughead tries to moan, again. Everything Archie does is driving him higher – increasing the electric feeling pooling at the base of his spine. With his head pressed to Archie’s shoulder he can’t see anything other than Archie’s face and the intensity and focus there. Archie’s brow is creased, his mouth open, and he’s staring at where his hand is working. It’s too much suddenly – not being able to see what Archie is doing to him, his exposed throat, nearly suffocating under his broad palm.

He bats at Archie’s wrist, once, twice, feeling a sharp spike of adrenaline when Archie doesn’t let up. “Mm-mmr?” he tries, before grabbing Archie’s wrist and tugging. Archie, oblivious, does let go, but he doesn’t even look at Jughead – well, not his at his _face_ , anyway.

“Oh, God,” Jughead heaves, “Oh, God, Oh, God.” Trying to catch his breath is pointless because every twist of Archie’s wrist drives it right back out of him. “Oh, God, Archie,” he says, looking down at where Archie is squeezing and immediately feeling like he’s gonna lose it. His dick is all pink and red against Archie’s big, pale hand.

“You’re so hot,” Archie says, dazedly, and presses his thumb on the sensitive strip of skin under the head. Jughead sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth and clutches at Archie’s thighs, trying not to thrust up and failing. His balls are pulled up so tight, heavy against his skin. He’s gonna lose it any second.

“Archie – Arch,” he pants, fixing on the brutal way Archie is stroking him – fast, twisting on the upstroke – watching the head wink in and out of Archie’s fist. It’s so slick and wet and Archie’s grip is on the perfect side of too tight. It only gets better when Archie’s other arm comes down across his hips, holding him in place. “Oh,” he chokes out, feeling surrounded and caged in by Archie, held and pinned down and turned inside out. He throws his face into the crook of Archie’s neck, mouth open, gasping against his throat, and then he comes all over his own stomach and Archie’s hand.

“Jughead,” Archie breathes. He puts his clean hand in Jughead’s hair and hauls him in – plants a messy, open-mouthed kiss on his cheek. He’s still jacking him as if he’ll come again, immediately, like a girl in porn. Over and over again. He feels like he could, biology be damned.

Archie keeps kissing him, on the cheek, mouth, eyelids, petting his hair – cradling him. His body is coming back together in pieces. Jughead briefly envisions the plasma ball Archie had propped on his desk two years ago - lightening spiralling out to meet greasy fingers on the glass. That's how he feels now; body rippling out to reach at Archie's hands.

It's getting unbearable. Archie's still licking at him; still moving his hand. “Hey,” he pants, eyes still squeezed shut, “You never heard of chafing?”

Archie immediately whips his hand away, leaving him feeling cold and a little disgusting. “Sorry.”

“All good,” Jughead murmurs, “Gimme a minute and I’ll do you.” It comes out off-hand, relaxed, but it’s anything but. He feels all curled up inside at the opportunity to touch Archie, to have him splayed out and making noise for him. He can still feel Archie’s dick pressing into him – hyperaware of it now that he has explicit permission to touch.

“Alright,” Archie says. He’s nuzzling behind Jughead’s ear and combing his sweaty hair out of his face. It makes him smile. Even now, when Archie’s trying to subtly rub off against his ass, he’s being sweet.

And then he ruins it by using Jughead’s happy trail as a towel.

“ _Dude_ ,” Jughead says, sitting up and crinkling his nose at the slick mess of his abdomen, “You couldn’t find a shirt?”

“You use _shirts_? I’m never borrowing anything from you again,” Archie laughs.

“I don’t! I’m just making reference to the two items of clothing that are nearest to us,” he gestures at Archie’s wadded up tee, stuffed between the bed and the wall. He grabs it and starts scrubbing himself down, looking at Archie pointedly. He tucks himself away, and then tosses the shirt on the floor for good measure.

“Anyway,” Archie says, “That’s disgusting.” He pauses, contemplative in that usual silent way. Jughead looks at him, and he’s wearing that smile that he gets when he’s come up with a real idea – not good or bad, but somewhere in between. Jughead’s been a part of those plans too many times to not recognise when one’s brewing.

“What?” He asks, smirking, “Just say whatever you’re thinking. I might have places to be later.”

“Oh yeah?” Archie snorts, “Gonna go round to Kev’s after this?” Jughead socks him in the shoulder.

“You gonna go round to Reggie’s?” he challenges. “Not funny, asshole.”

“Hey, hey,” Archie says, putting his hands up, “I’m just kidding, you know I don’t mean that, Jug.”

Jughead sighs. “I know. I still don’t like it.”

“Okay,” Archie says, and then he grins. “But I know what you _do_ like.” Jughead rolls his eyes, but lets Archie kiss him briefly.

“Alright, what are you thinking,” Jughead says, pulling back, “I can feel you smiling.”

Archie’s raises his eyebrows and just blatantly comes out with, “Next time, we can save on the shirts and just lick it off each other.”

“Now who’s disgusting,” Jughead says.

“Still you.”

“Is this your tactic?” Jughead interrupts. “You get people in bed and start insulting them? Remind me again why you’ve never had a steady girlfriend?”

“Mmm,” Archie says, putting on a big show of thinking really hard. “You might be on to something. Or, y’know, it could be because I’m in love with you.”

“It’s like you’re some kind of genius,” he deadpans. Archie giggles and gently cuffs him around the ear, and then they’re both laughing.

“Okay, okay,” he says, sitting up on his knees and turning to face Archie. “Still want a hand with that?”

“Only if you’ve got a free one,” Archie quips.

His eyes are still so dark. Now that the urgency has worn off, he’s really excited to do this, and do it right. His insides feel like they’re full of giant, rampaging butterflies, but there’s nothing – short of Fred Andrews bursting in here – would make him get off the bed. “Well, lucky for you, I’ve got a whole two,” he says, and presses Archie up against the headboard to kiss him.

He doesn’t waste any time. He thinks he might want this even more than Archie, who’s gasping into his mouth and writhing a little already, just with Jughead’s thumbs tucked into his waistband.

He pops the button of Archie’s jeans and then starts tugging them down. Archie lifts his hips to help him, and they both huff when his jeans get caught around his ankles before Jughead snarls, “Come _on_ ,” and throws them to the floor.

Archie laughs at him, briefly, before Jughead gets his palm on Archie’s dick through his briefs and pushes the heel of his hand in – the same way he does to himself when he’s too desperate to drag it out. “Haa,” Archie whines, like it’s hurting him, even as his hips pump up thoughtlessly.

He doesn’t know where to look. Archie’s eyes are screwed shut and his mouth is parted – still slick and wet and used, and his chest is heaving. He’s got a bruise forming next to his right nipple where Jughead must’ve sucked too hard. He presses his thumb there, listening for Archie’s hissed intake of air, and then uses both hands to yank down his boxer briefs.

“Oh – Archie,” he says, shocked and aroused. He fits his index finger over the head of his dick. It comes away tacky, pre- clinging to his fingertip in a shiny trail. He absently rubs his finger against his thumb, spreading it around. They’re both watching Jughead touch him – playing with the tip, running the backs of his fingers along the underside.

He wraps his hand around the base and squeezes. “Jug,” Archie gasps, like it’s been forced up out of him.

It’s weird and kind of awkward doing it in reverse. It gets easier once he tips the lube over his palm. He understands now why Archie wanted to be behind him, but this way – facing him, Jughead can see all his reactions. Archie seems to like it when he squeezes tighter on the upstroke, because it makes his hips chase Jughead’s fist and his eyes slam closed.

Jughead wants to touch him more than he’s already doing – wants to be all over him, all the time. He kisses him, using his teeth to pull at Archie’s bitten-red lips. Still mouthing at him when Archie can’t reciprocate anymore – too busy trying to breathe.

He’s watching the movement of his own hand, how the tight squeeze on Archie’s dick makes fluid trickle out of the slit and run down his knuckles. He’s salivating. It doesn’t make sense. He _has_ a dick and he knows that nothing they produce tastes good – all the times he’s licked it off his hands, fantasising, it’s never been good. Well, the intent was always cripplingly, eye-rollingly hot. Still, Archie saying ‘ _just lick it off each other_ ’ shakes through him like an echo chamber. He’s considering it, and trying to not think anything funny or vaguely prophetic about hotdogs or other phallic foodstuffs.

Subversively, he puts his mouth to Archie’s chest again. Then lower. And lower still. His heart is thundering in his ears. Archie’s hands curl into his hair. “You don’t have to – you don’t –“, he pants, near thrashing. And then he locks, entire body freezing up when Jughead flattens his tongue and drags it over the tip.

He was right. It doesn’t taste great. And still, regardless, he’s getting hard again. It’s hopelessly hot, even just lapping at the weeping head of Archie’s dick. Archie isn’t even forming words anymore. He makes a horrible broken noise and Jughead has to grind his palm into his own groin because – Christ – Archie’s about to come.

Jughead doesn’t think at all. He wants to see Archie’s face – see him fucking lose it. He moves his lips away and looks up, watching Archie's mouth fall open. And then, hunched like that, bent over, near forgetting how space and men and gravity work; the divine intervene. Archie comes all over his face.

The bottom of Jughead’s stomach drops out. He can _feel_ it running in sticky rivulets down his cheeks – his neck. They’re locked together, both gasping, staring at each other like they cannot believe it. Like neither of them have the brains to truly conceptualise what just happened. He’s half-hard. He squeezes himself and can’t hold back the helpless whimper it produces. “Jughead,” Archie gasps.

“Huh?” Jughead says. He’s a little bewildered. There’s come running into his eye.

"Based on the evidence," Archie says, sly grin creeping onto his face, “I think you’re the Jake Gyllenhaal.”

“Y’know what, Andrews?” he says, swiping at the mess on his face. “Shut up.”

=

“Kevin,” Jughead says, leant over the picnic table, naturally furtive in the light of day with other listeners milling around.

“Mmm?” Kevin says, not looking up from his algebra homework.

“ _Kevin_ ,” he hisses.

“ _What_ , Jug,” Kevin sighs, “I need to do this before fifth period.”

Jughead leans in closer, chest lowered to the table top in some attempt at faux-privacy when Veronica could saunter in at any time. Kevin still hasn’t looked up, but his eyebrows are raised expectantly. Probably waiting for one of Jughead’s new theories about the sociology of the student population. “Kevin,” Jughead says, “I’m gay.”

“Congratulations,” Kevin says, “I need to get this done by fifth period.” Jughead huffs, sitting back heavily. But Kevin - Kevin tangles their calves and feet together under the table, smiling a little at his own chicken-scratch handwriting. Jughead tips his head back, looking at the sun filtering through the green, green, leaves of the oak through misty eyes. _I’m gay_ , he mouths, and feels the world shift underneath him.

=

The next night, Jughead scrambles up to Archie’s window, heart thudding in his chest at Archie’s big, sanctifying smile through the glass.

“Hey, Juliet,” he says, and grins when Archie kisses him.

**Author's Note:**

> come chat to me at puthein.tumblr.com! i like comments


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